Shock and Awe
by TheWaiter
Summary: When Sergeant Paul Jackson rescues Flight Sergeant Mary Williams from certain death, something blossoms. And in a world where terror marks every country, and nuclear missiles race towards the US, every flower counts. Rated M for language and gore. 3 is up
1. Shock and Awe

_Authors Note: Welcome to my newest fic, Shock and Awe. After I played the entire game, I was blown away by the intense story telling. After I finished the Aftermath mission, I realised a huge 'what if...'  
What if Paul Jackson hadn't died, but passed out and was revived by the pilot he had rescued? Her absense at the crash site intrigued me, to say the least. Without further ado, I bring you Shock and Awe._

**Shock And Awe**

**The Paul Jackson Story**

**Day Two: 0739:45 hours**

**Somewhere in the Middle East**

* * *

Jackson watched the helicopter spiral down, the tail rudder smoking, and his heart spiralled with it. Seeing another American chopter spiralling out of control… 

This mission was far from over, it seemed.

Call sign Deadly was down. Possible survivors.

"Command, this is Eagle. Deadly is down. Multiple hostiles converging on target, permission to assist, over."

"Permission Granted, Eagle. Be advised, Seal team six has discovered a nuclear device, and it may be hot. Rescue the pilot if you can."

Jackson cocked his M4-A1 assault rifle, and his grip tightened. They had to get the pilot out of there before the nuke blew.

"Deadly, this is Eagle. What is your status?" The pilot of the Marine chopper sounded strained.

"Barreth is dead! They're coming! I could use a hand, Eagle!"

"Confirmed, troops inbound."

As soon as the chopper touched down, the marines were sprinting all out. Gun fire spouted from all twelve rifles, and Jackson took point, opening up on some Iraqi soldiers.

"Jackson! Go for it!" The order came through, and he ran towards the downed bird, the pilot trapped inside as the Iraqis charged towards her, eager for a free kill and someone to torment.

The fact that the pilot was female made him run faster, his legs pumping with all he had in him. He drew his sidearm and pumped a round into one tango, two rounds into another.

Thirty meters away, and he saw the pilot's head loll to one side. He glanced to the side, down the main road, and his heart nearly stopped.

The street was crawling with Iraqis.

They shot a few rounds at him, his squad giving him cover fire as he raced to the Pilot.

Her eyes widened as he approached, pistol drawn, helmet long gone, brown hair matted and sweat covered. He fired a few shots, standing in front of her, blocking the line of sight.

"Jackson! Grab the Pilot! Go for it! We'll cover you!"

Not wasting a moment, he grabbed her, lifting her gently out of the pilot's seat, giving her a sympathetic glance as he held her, bridal style.

She clung to him, her arms around his neck. She had just stared death in the face, and he had taken her from it.

"Go!" A soldier yelled, and he started running. She was jostled with the pace of his sprint, her helmeted head whacking off of his shoulder once in a while. She was surprised that he didn't even seem winded as he sprinted hard, gunfire all around.

Her heart almost stopped when he lurched forwards, as a bullet tore through his shoulder. She stared at him, as he didn't lose stride, kept going, determined to get her to safety.

She looked over his shoulder, and almost screamed as she saw the five Marines, firing at will upon the OpFor soldiers. Many Iraqi's were cut down, but more replaced them, all of them intent on one thing;

Death of all Americans.

Next thing she knew, she was being gently lowered into the leather seats of the helicopter. She winced and met his eyes. As she looked up, Flight Sergeant Mary Williams got a good look at Sergeant Paul Jackson.

His shoulder was bleeding from the fresh wound, and his intense green eyes met hers as he strapped her in. Her blue eyes were glossy, and shining with tears. She had almost died. He smiled at her, reassuringly, before pulling out his M4-A1 assault rifle, and covering the Marines as best he could.

There was no rest for soldiers. Not today.

One by one, the Marines clambered on board the helicopter, firing the last few shots at the OpFor soldiers. Jackson stepped on the ramp, opening up.

"Go, Go, Go!" Lt. Vasquez grabbed Jackson and pulled him back into the chopper. He took a seat, still firing.

"Everyone, hold on!" The pilot cried as the chopper took off, making a beeline away from the bomb. From their seats, Williams and Jackson had a clear view of five or six more choppers, all flying as fast as their engines would take them.

"Pilots! Red Alert! The Nuke is hot! Explosion is imminent! Get to the Rendezvous –"

The bomb went off. Jackson and Williams looked out, in horror, as choppers behind them were obliterated by smoke and fire. The explosion rocketed towards them, tearing through buildings, detonating choppers.

"Everybody, Hang on!" Lt. Vasquez shouted. Heat washed over them, and one of the marines flew out the open end of the chopper, Jackson tried to grab him, but lurched and almost fell. "SHIT!" A marine behind him cried, as he lurched past Jackson, scrabbling for a hold on the chopper floor.

Jackson grabbed him with one hand, holding fast to a strap on the seat.

The helicopter started to spiral, smoke billowing from its tail rudder. The marine smiled at Jackson, and let go, flying out of the copter.

Jackson closed his eyes, holding on to the seat with all his strength. He briefly thought of Sergeant Williams before the copter crashed and all went dark.

* * *

**A/N: Chapter two upcoming**


	2. Charlie Don't Surf

_Authors Note: Thanks to all who reviewed! Time for the plot to unravel a little bit. ;)_

**Two: Charlie Don't Surf**

**Day Two: 1937:46**

**United County Specialized Hospital, New York**

**12 hours after detonation**

* * *

"Multiple fractures in your thigh bones, two cracked ribs, a minor concussion. Knee fragments, kidney failure, and high blood pressure were a result of the rudder blade lodged in your lower back. We found a bullet in your shoulder, and removed it as best we could, but nerve damage was already imminent. And lets not forget the tons of bruises, burns, and scars you have. You're a lucky man, Sergeant." The doctor said.

Jackson lay in a bed of pale green, looking up at him, his hands folded. "Lucky, huh?"

"To be alive? Yes."

He rolled over, facing the window, staring out at the business of the hospital. "A nuke went off, Doctor. Radiation poisoning? Distortion? Will I glow in the future?"

The doctor coughed, fiddling with his folder. "The… The radiation… Well, Mr. Johnson-"

"It's Jackson, Doctor."

"Right. Jackson. Well, the radiation poisoning is what I'm really here to talk to you about." He said, smiling sadly. "We're concerned about the level of radiation your body was exposed to."

"Concerned? You don't even know my _name_, doctor."

The doctor paused. "A… slip of the tongue, Sergeant."

Jackson looked at him. There was a long silence in which the Sergeant and the doctor stared at each other.

"You aren't concerned for me. You're interested in me." Jackson said, sighing.

The doctor cringed a little. "All those bullet wounds-"

"I've been shot eleven times, doctor." Jackson said, simply. "Old news. What about the radiation poisoning?"

"Your body was exposed to almost six hours of radiation poisoning, about half an hour after the bomb detonated. You were found limping heavily for the road, to either end your life or get away. It's irrelevant. The fact is, you were alive, moving, and remained alive until you got in our care. It's amazing. You can move freely, minus the Injuries to your leg. The fact that you survived this long is…"

"How long?" Jackson asked, looking at his hands. His middle finger had a bit on the end missing, from shrapnel wounds.

"You have about… ten years left, without treatment." The doctor smiled softly "With treatment, we can extend it to fifteen." The doctor sighed. "You're probably the only case we have that didn't die from the bomb blast, sever radiation poisoning, or both. You are a rare case where your body shows some sort of… immunity, towards extreme radiation. Well, Rare is the wrong word. You are the sole case that your body shows immunity. In all cases, you should be dead."

"Damn right!" A booming voice said, and the door to the room slammed. Inside stepped Captain Jeffery "Duff" Black, a big eastern Indian man, and Jackson's mentor. "Never met a man who could take a bullet like Paul Jackson. Hell, if he was immune to cancer, I wouldn't be shocked." He took a seat beside Jackson, grinning from ear to ear. "How ya doing, kid?"

"Fine, sir." Jackson said, smiling at the doctor. Captain Black was a little odd. He had been Jackson's mentor since boot camp, had given him a promotion, and had been with him on his first assignment. After all that, Jackson hated him no less than at the start of camp.

"You don't know, do you, boy? Doc! How's the lad doing?" Black said, grinning at the doctor.

The man coughed. "He has internal bleeding, nerve damage in his shoulder, and mild depression. In other words…" The doctor smiled. "He's fine. One of the most durable bodies I've ever seen. Lots of entry scars from bullet wounds."

Jackson shrugged. "Sometimes I zig, when I should zag."

Black laughed. "Or you're too busy carrying pretty pilots around to do either. Thanks, Doc. You can go now."

The doctor cleared his throat. "But, about the radiation poison-"

"Later, Doc. You can see the Sergeant later." Black turned towards Jackson, his visage hardening.

The doctor made his exit, confusedly. He then checked his logbook, sighed, and went to find the family of the late Lieutenant Vasquez.

* * *

Black looked down at Jackson. "Look, I ain't gonna lie, kid. It's bad. Operation SHOCK was a total failure; Al Asad was nowhere near the target city. The SAS has claim on his whereabouts now, and they aren't' sharing. Staff Sergeant Griggs and his crew has been assigned to work co-op with them for the time being."

Jackson almost laughed. Griggs, working with brits? THAT was a site to see.

But laughing turned to hurting, and he had had enough of pain.

"How many choppers burned? I saw at least three get hit by the flames, but…the others were all in front of us. They made it… right?" He was a little too hopeful.

Black sighed. "'Fraid not, kiddo. Six choppers, not including yours, went down. The ones further ahead rammed into buildings. Zero survival rate. Those that didn't die of radiation died of burns and bullets." Black stood, facing the window.

"What about other survivors?"

"Two from your plane. Vasquez made it here before flat lining. You were flown in unconscious, bleeding everywhere, but you looked great. That Mary Williams came in conked out as well, but her radiation was extreme." Black sighed. "You three were the only ones to make it out of the crash site."

The news hit hard. A twelve-man crew, two pilots, and a navigator. Plus Williams made sixteen. Three had survived.

"The other choppers… the choppers we found, that is… nobody. Not a damn soul left. Whatever we didn't get to, the Iraqi's got." He shook his head. "We want the bastard that did this to us. We want him now."

Jackson sighed. "The British have him, though, right?"

"Yeah." Black said, sitting down again and inching closer. "That's why I'm here. How do you feel about…" He looked away for a second, and then looked back. "…Covert ops?"

Jackson's stomach fell. "No." He said, simply.

"Come _on_, Jackson. We need someone to guide the SAS in the right direction-"

"You have Griggs." Jackson said firmly.

"In one division. Captain Price, the guy's name is. He wants Al Asad just as badly as we do."

"Then let him have him."

"If the united states capture Al asad… The military will be reknowned! The marines will get more resources, less cuts…"

Jackson stared for a while. "Is this what it's about, Black? A nice promotion and a fat paycheck?"

Black sighed, looking at him. "They move in on Asad in six hours."

"And they'll move in with Griggs." Jackson growled.

Black's eyes were icy. "Don't make me order you to go, Jackson."

"ORDER ME?" Jackson exploded, making Black jump. "I'm _fucking wounded!_ I have ten years, Black. _Ten years to live._ And I am not, under _any _circumstances, spending my ten years working with british snobs, running around an unknown territory, with no idea who's my enemy and who's my ally."

"Jackson-"

"The answer is no. Get out." Jackson said, violently.

Black stood, glaring. "I'll give you some time. Once Griggs extracts them, you'll have a choice. Either you go with them, or leave the military."

Jackson shook his head. "Get out, Captain." He said, breathing hard. His left eye was glossy, seemingly blinded. Black made his exit, and Jackson shook his head, trying to rid himself of his anger. He felt lightheaded… so… very lightheaded…

_

* * *

_

**Day Two: 0816:32**

**Ten minutes after detonation**

* * *

_He woke up, smoke billowing around him, to coughing._

_Wet, wheezing coughs, coming from his left._

_He tried to roll over, but was lying in a pool of blood. He checked his hands. Wet, sickly with red._

_He tried to speak, but more of his life juices poured out of him._

_To his left, he heard a choking sound. He shifted his eyes, and saw a helmet slump against the wall._

_His hand found the source of his back pain. A rudder. Through his stomach. Pulling it out would not be fun._

_His leg was numb, broken at the knee. He crawled forwards on his stomach, grunting in pain._

_Vasquez was leaning against the wall, his eyes closed, but he was still alive. Somewhere, he heard a crash of metal on metal, the sound of a building de-stabilizing, brick thumping on the roof of the chopper._

_Or what was left of it._

_Groaning, he pulled himself over to Vasquez. He decided against waking him, but could tell he was still alive. However barely._

_He pulled, hand over hand, until he hit the edge of the helicopter ramp. He flopped downwards, landing on his back and giving a hard grunt._

_Blood and bile spewed forth. He swallowed it back, sitting up._

_He was lying on dirt. Red tinged his vision, probably his bloodshot eyes._

_He was crawling now, desperate to get away from the sound of fire and the smell of smoke. His gun was forgotten._

_He wasn't escaping. He wasn't hoping for a rescue or a friendly family. He wasn't looking for a cure for his wounds._

_He was looking for an Iraqi._

_He was looking for death._

_He was on his feet, dragging his left one, gritting his teeth._

_He couldn't move his neck, and all he heard was a faint ringing noise, as if shell-shocked. A ringing that plagued him._

_The red tinge to his vision amplified, and he tried moving left. It worsened. He moved to his right. It lessened slightly._

_Radiation. His red vision must've been from radiation._

_Over the ringing, he heard the faint sound of helicopters. Men roped down, in E-VAC Rad suits, grabbing him by the shoulders. He put up a mild fight, but once he saw the USMC emblem on the side of the helicopter, he relaxed._

_The site never looked so welcoming._

* * *

Black came back, two hours later, announcing that Al-Asad was dead. He handed over entry forms to Jackson, reading that if signed, the signer would be accepted into the Spec-Op Marines.

As of 3 AM, June 21st, day three of the resistance to Al-Asad, Sergeant Paul Jackson was accepted into the Special Forces division, working alongside the SAS. He was released from hospital care two hours later.

* * *

**A/N: Wow! Didn't know I'd see reviewers in the first 48 hours. That's more than my other stories combined. Heh.**

**I know I'm stretching the radiation bit of the story, but it's a what-if story, right? Might as well go all out.**

**Chapter 3 coming soon.**


	3. Hilltop Blues

_Author's Note: This is the seventh time I've re-written this chapter. I hope I got it right this time._

_Changed the rating due to some intense language on Miller's part. This one contains a gun fight, and Jackson being one Billy Bad ass._

_Also, Wikipedia claims that Soap's name is John, so I'll use it here. If it isn't, my apologies._

Three: Hilltop Blues

* * *

**Day Four: 0448:29**

**2 hours after Al Asad's death**

**USA Dallas Marine Reservation Camp**

Jackson walked back to the reservation with a slight limp. The plane ride had taken an hour and a half to get back to Dallas Resevation, including the landing times, and the entire trip was taken with a sleeping Colonel and a very skittish Captain Black.

The latter of the two kept sprouting advice about the black ops and the British alike.

"The wanker's never sleep. They run and run until they die, unlike any sensible soldier. So what you gotta do is set the pace. Make em run harder, shoot straighter, and take more bullets. Eventually, they start to respect you, maybe even like you."

Jackson thought it was all a load of crap, but kept his head down. His leg, which still throbbed mildly, was a nice distraction from the big Captain's droning.

He was practically shoved off the plane by Black, the sleeping Colonel still on board. The pilot looked harassed and wild and Black looked pumped and excited. Jackson guessed that this was the first time in ages that Black had the opportunity to get into a real firefight, the head of a SpecOps mission so secretive, that even Black himself didn't know all the details. All Jackson could tell from the Captain's constant blabber was that it was big, involved killing people, and it was a joint operation alongside the "Wankers". What the hell that meant, Jackson could only guess.

He breathed the scent of musky air, sweat, and gunpowder, and only one thought crossed his mind:

_Home._

_This_ is what every soldier wanted to wake up to. Other than the sight of a wife or a child never met, a soldier's greatest sight was a base of operations as massive as Dallas Reservation.

The place stretched for miles, a hotspot for vehicle repair, cafeterias, armory's, firing ranges, shipping lanes, and medicine. All in one great spot.

Black wandered off, going to try and find Leutenant Gongor or something. Jackson didn't care. All he wanted was back in the fight, so that he could go home.

Two corporals approached him, and he glared at them warily as they grinned amiably. "Sergeant Jackson?" The taller one asked. Jackson eyed him.

A head taller than himself, blue eyes, and brown hair. An M16 was strapped to his back, and his helmet was slightly askew, as if he had rammed it onto his head when he saw the plane land. Knowing this particular area, Jackson guessed that he probably did. One thing he did notice was a large white patch with a red cross on it. Jackson smiled. A medic.

"That's me." He said quietly, and the corporal smiled.

"Corporal McKinnon, sir. You're flying out with Staff Sergeant Griggs and C company in half an hour. I was told you were briefed, sir?"

"Pretty well off." He said, remembering the Captain's long attempts at warning him about redcoats. He shouldered his small pack. "Is there an armament around here?" He looked around at the base camp.

"Yes sir. There's one just down the road there, a short walk from the mess. You can pick up your kit there." The soldier smiled. "Hey, I heard about… about the bombing. You're a hero to a lot of these guys, sir."

Jackson huffed. "Yeah. Thanks." He shouldered past the two.

"Okay! Rendezvous at the Heli-pad at 0600!" One of them called.

Jackson rolled his eyes. A Hero. Oh, sweet Jesus.

* * *

Griggs and Black stood outside the chopper, eyeing their men with intensity. Miller, Bonk, Gomez, McKinnon, Jackson and Vogler. The Marine's finest men from Infiltration to Recon to Cavalry Division. 

After a moment, Griggs looked at Black. "You sure you want in on this, sir? We'll meet Captain Price down there, pick up his squad, and he can take the mission."

Black laughed. "You kidding? And miss all this excitement? Hell, Jackson's coming along, I might as well too."

Griggs' eyes rested for a moment on Jackson. At about 6'1, and around 190 lbs, Jackson had an air about him that commanded attention. Intense green eyes were the only real impressive feature about the man, eyes that seemed to take in the surroundings rather than meet Griggs' eyes.

"Boys!" Black boomed, giving some of the men a start. "Fighting's in two hours. You know the drill – you've all been briefed. The S.A.S has a squad in a compromised zone, a big hilly town somewhere in Russia. They've given our reports. It turns out the british did something right, Al-Asad is dead!" He looked around, as if expecting rounds of applause for this grand achievement. Recieving none, Black continued. "The LZ will be mega hot, so you gotta get those legs pumping and the adrenaline flowin." He paused, looking down at Jackson's bad leg disprovingly. Jackson glared at him.

"Sir, with all do respect, I can shoot straighter, run faster, and fight harder than you ever could." Jackson said, bringing Black's eyes up to his.

The two men held an intense stare. Griggs cleared his throat.

"Uh, Your primary goals are to extract the Paratroopers from their position, and protect the Cobra at all costs." Griggs took over, smiling slightly. "This is big, boys. We've got Britain's back on this one. Keep it together and remember; You're america's finest."

"Sir!" The men yelled, and then piled on to the chopper. Jackson rose to his feet slowly, saluted Griggs, and walked on to the bird, his limp more prominent than usual.

"Fucking air fights, man." Private First Class James Miller stated. "We might as well be spittin at them."

Jackson shrugged, then firmly slapped his helmet onto his head. "What choice to we have?"

The pilot of the cobra, a petite female, came over the COM. "Welcome aboard, the _Deadly II_, gentlemen. I'll be your pilot, or flight attendant, for this evening. Weather outside is a pleasant 16 degrees celcius. Takeoff in two minutes."

Jackson took a long look back at the base camp. More helicopters were being loaded up with gear and soldiers, to several destinations around the globe. Some going to help clean up the nuclear mess, some going to search for survivors, and still others were going home to their families, to console and reassure, to smile at their wives and children, and to enjoy their leave before coming back to the camp and fighting once again.

For the first time since joining with the 2nd recon, Jackson wondered if the system was more than a little messed up.

Griggs then entered the chopper, settling down beside Jackson. Black entered last, his black SpecOps helmet shining in the sunlight. "Williams, lift us off. Let's go save us some wankers!"

Jackson's head snapped up. He reached for his com, just as the pilot said in a cheerful tone, "Aye Aye, sir!"

"…Williams?" He said, dumbfounded. "Mary Williams?"

A laugh came over the com. "Hey, Jackson. Long time no see, eh?"

Jackson settled back with a smile. "Yeah," His smile widened. "No kidding."

* * *

As soon as the chopper touched down, bullets rang through the steel interior, shattering two windows. Black, who was the closest to the ramp, leapt off, firing a two second burst into the shrubs. Griggs followed, with a cry of "Hit it, Marines!" 

The American spec ops leapt from the chopper, letting loose a long stream of lead, firing from seven different assault rifles. Jackson rolled when he heard the snap of a bullet near him, and opened up a short burst on two Russians standing nearby.

Black and Griggs worked their way towards cover, rotating their men in a slow circle, keeping low.

Miller let out a yelp as a bullet rang towards him. He fired at the shooter until his clip was empty, was rewarded with a scream of pain, and slapped a fresh clip into his M16.

Corporal Bonk suddenly fell, a bullet lodged in his shoulder. Immidiatley, McKinnon, the squad's designated medic, was over him, medic pack opened.

Another bullet sang past Griggs' helmet, forcing him to drop to a prone position.

"SNIPER!" He called, scanning the dense tree-line desperately.

Jackson grabbed a hold of Bonk's jacket and dragged him to cover behind a rocky outcropping, and McKinnon followed. The Marines bunkered down, curled up into balls with their weapons at the ready, as the hiss and snaps of bullets sang around them.

"Fuck…" Bonk groaned, trying to roll onto his side. Jackson held him on his back while McKinnon went to work.

McKinnon stripped off a bit of cloth around the wound, immediately washing the blood away with some disinfectant. He pulled the round out with a pair of tweezers, applying a quick patch, before tapping Bonk's arm and bunkering down again. Bonk took a painkiller and grabbed his SAW Machine gun again.

A bullet tore into the hill where Miller and Gomez lay. Miller flinched, and Gomez yelped.

Griggs observed the situation gravely. Black leaned towards Miller.

"Mills! Can you spot the sniper!" Black boomed. The OpFor soldiers replied with another burst in his direction.

Miller shook his head. "Can't see shit, Cappy. Don't intend to try, neither."

Gomez laughed. "Ain't no way we're peeking our heads out there."

Jackson rolled his eyes and turned to Bonk. "Bonk, get fire on that bush. McKinnon, get ready with that med pack." Jackson said, and nodded.

Bonk rolled from his position, firing a long barrage of bullets, shredding a lot of foliage. A snap landed to his left, and he dove back for cover. Immediately, Jackson leaped from cover, levelling his rifle, and fired a burst. A scream was heard in the distance.

Jackson spun back into cover, his back to the outcropping. "Sniper down." He reported, reloading his M14.

Bonk stared at him in awe. "How…"

Griggs looked up, and saw four figures charging downhill, towards them. "Hey boys, the British are coming!" Black yelled, laughing.

As the four SAS men crashed through the foliage, Black stood, laughing, waving his arm.

"Black, you idiot! Get down!" Gomez hissed, firing a short burst into the trees.

"Oh, give me a break, soldier! Jackson got the mother-" A shot rang out. Black dropped, a good hole through his temple.

"SHIT!" Griggs yelled, making frantic arm movements to the four soldiers. Jackson grimaced, feeling no sorrow for the downed Captain. Griggs finally shot a bush near the four soldiers, forcing them to go into cover. "Sniper! SNIPER!!!"

Miller took aim with his sniper rifle, scanning the tree line. Bonk opened fire through the foliage, giving McKinnon covering fire as he ran to the captain.

McKinnon felt Black's pulse, looked up at Griggs, and shook his head. "Never stood a chance."

Griggs nodded, and signalled to Jackson. Bonk and Gomez provided cover, as Jackson sprinted towards Griggs and McKinnon.

"Jackson, will your sniper trick work again?" He said. Jackson nodded slowly.

"Follow my lead." Griggs said. He ducked low and pulled up his SAW, signalling to Bonk. In unison, Bonk and Griggs fired a long stream of bullets, ripping apart what little green was left. Suddenly, a flash of sunlight was on Griggs face – sunlight glinting off of a sniper scope.

It was only an instant, but it was the instant Jackson had been waiting for.

Whirling, gun at the ready, Jackson fired three bullets, and the sniper dropped.

"Sniper down! Go, go go!"

"SAS! You are clear! Let's Move!" Griggs yelled.

A fresh-faced looking sergeant was first, running full speed until he hit the helicopter. A fresh wave of OpFor soldiers suddenly made a push at the battle-weary marines, but they held steadfast. Two more SAS soldiers piled on. The last barely made it to the circle before taking a round in the head.

"Sniper!" Miller called, and his rifle cracked. "Never mind."

Griggs boarded the chopper, followed by McKinnon, bearing Black's dead body, then Miller, Gomez, and Bonk, who tapped on Jackson's shoulder. Jackson was the last to board, and him and the British Sergeant opened up as the helicopter lifted off.

When they were a safe distance away, Jackson wiped sweat off of his brow. His leg was throbbing mildly, but it was nothing he couldn't handle. The British Sarge across from him layed his rifle down, flashing a quick smile towards Jackson.

Jackson turned to the Sergeant, and extended a hand. "Paul Jackson. You?"

The Sergeant pulled off his helmet, grinning. "John MacTavish."

"We call him Soap." One of the other SAS operatives yelled, and the Marines laughed.

Jackson smiled. "Soap, huh? What kind of a name is that, anyways?"

* * *

**Closing Thoughts: I. Am. So. Sorry. I want to sincerely thank EVERYONE who yelled at me to get off my lazy grade 11 butt and write the third chapter. Guys, keep on me. I'm seriously a slacker, and I need to pick up the pace.**

**Sins of the Father will be covered next, as well as No Fighting in the War Room.**

**Thanks again!**

**TheWaiter**


	4. Dust

**A/N: Holy mother of god, an update!?**

**Yes, it's true. I've told various reviewers that I am indeed continuing this story, and I never really followed through on that promise, and for that I'm sorry. But the story **_**IS**_**continuing! **

**No, you did not miss a chapter. I'm going in a slightly new direction with the plot, and so here's a look at a few soldiers that I otherwise wouldn't have had a chance to develop. The next four chapters will be ripe with flashbacks, Williams/Jackson, and Miller swearing. So don't go rifling through the previous chapters looking for something you missed; it isn't there.**

**Without further ado, and with my sincerest apologies, here is chapter four: Dust.**

* * *

It was the middle of the field where he lay when he realized that everything he'd done in the past four hours went to shit.

His hearing was busted; that he knew rather well. A deep set ringing filled his ear drums, the comforting thudding in his ears, his own heartbeat. He also knew that he'd been shot at least once. His gut felt like it was on fire, and every time his hand strayed down there, it came up red. He'd given up trying to hold his insides in, and though he felt melodramatic for thinking it, he'd also given up trying to drag himself to safety, his only lifeline was now his sanity. That too, was slipping fast.

He tried to pinpoint exactly where he had fucked up. It was after the message on the radio had chimed in, stating that _the crazy kid shot himself_, the sins of his father finally catching up to the bastard and pulling the trigger. He'd heard Soap and Price's panicked voices, Gaz's angry grunts as he cursed the body of Zakhaev.

He'd also heard, felt, and _lived_ the thump that had shattered the side of the helicopter, and in the dice roll of life, he'd finally rolled a one.

He remembered Williams grappling with the stick, cursing and saying that she wouldn't let her bird crash _again_, Bonk praying, Miller swearing and cocking his rifle, and the copter tilted suddenly, his gun un strapping from its holster and flying out the open end. He'd grabbed on to the frame of the copter, squeezing his eyes shut, blubbering, feeling spittle fly from his mouth.

He remembered that Jackson had been yelling orders, things like _Hang on, brace for impact_ and other obvious shit that Sergeants tended to do from time to time. Jackson's face had been hard, angry, determined. He was a survivor.

He also remembered the impact in the only open field in the city, being flung from the wreck. His hearing had gone out briefly then, as Jackson had been pulling people from the copter, Williams had hopped down, holding her pistol. He remembered being dragged by Miller and Bonk, how Gomez had taken shrapnel and collapsed immediately when the copter blew, how their squad of eight soldiers were suddenly down to five soldiers and a pilot.

Now, he slid backwards, a lone soldier, lying almost dead and bleeding out fast in the middle of a field, the last three hours and forty-seven minutes so much less clear than the crash. He was deep in enemy territory, wounded, and desperately trying to ignore the thumping in his head that told him, repeatedly, that he was going to die.

Sean McKinnon was going to go someday, but he'd be _damned_ if it was going to be here.

=-=-=-=-=

**Three Hours Previously**

Jackson surveyed the crash site, his modded M4 slung over his shoulder, trained eyes piercing the city skyline as the bright sunlight faded to purple, the night coming around. The radio was out, the co-pilot was dead, and he was miles away from any allied zone. Chances for rescue were nearly zero, and he had a wounded and delirious medic, a sniper who couldn't stop swearing under his breath, and a heavy machine gunner who seemed so calm it unnerved him. And he had Williams, who was now testing the weight of a sidearm plucked from a very dead and crispy Gomez, cocking the handgun experimentally. She slid a magazine into the gun with a harsh _clack_, the only thing betraying her steely eyes was her shaking hands.

Jackson headed back to the loose circle of his soldiers, getting to one knee in front of McKinnon, who was almost completely out of it. His eyes were wide, darting around the field, hands clenched and shaking as he seemed to visibly try to snap out of it. Jackson looked him in the eyes.

"What's your name, son?" He asked, trying to keep his eyes like flint. The baby blues focused, seemed to sharpen as they rested on Jackson's face.

"Sean, sir."

"Sean. We're going to get out of here. We're going to get _you_ out of here, you understand? They've noticed us crash, they know where we are, and they're coming. All I need you to do is stay alive. Okay?"

McKinnon nodded, and Jackson clapped him on the back and stood, heading back towards the downed helicopter. Williams followed him, lowering her voice.

"I was just looking at the receiver. It's totally destroyed, but there's a chance that the transmitter's still working." She tucked a stray hair behind her ear as she spoke, her eyes darting back towards where McKinnon still sat, helmet still firmly on his head.

"It doesn't matter. If our signal's still good, they won't get here in time." Jackson rumbled, his gaze still fixed on the crashed helicopter. The RPG had torn clean through it's tail, sending it into a barely controlled spin. There was little smoke, but still enough to draw a crowd. "There are probably going to be soldiers pouring out of those buildings in about an hour."

Her eyes softened with worry, and she touched his arm briefly. "Jackson-"

"Call me Paul," He said, his eyes finally finding hers. "there's no real reason to be formal anymore."

"Paul. What are we going to do about- about Sean?" She breathed, her eyes darting back towards him. "The wound in his leg is pretty bad, he has no gun, no sidearm, and you don't look like you're in any shape to carry anyone."

She fingered a hole in his shoulder, and Jackson looked down at it in surprise. With all the adrenaline pumping through his veins, he hadn't noticed taking the hit. Now that her finger was mere inches away, the wound throbbed. He shook his head. "I'll manage. Bonk and Miller will have to carry him with us."

"Who'm I carrying?" Miller called out, sauntering up to the two. His telltale swagger was reduced, humbled by the accident that had killed his squad mates.

"Sean. We need to move from this position. Too many ways to die in the open. We need to get to higher ground." Jackson lowered his voice, indicating an apartment building overlooking the field. "You still have your rifle?"

Miller raised the gun in question, a cowboy grin on his face. "Yessir, and plenty of ammo, to boot. A Texas boy knows to hang on to his bullets."

Jackson nodded absently, his attention shifting to Williams. "I think we may be needing all of them. Go get ready." Miller jogged off, and Williams met Jackson's gaze.

"There's going to be a lot of fighting, Mary." He said, softly. She smiled back at him.

"I know, Paul. But we're used to surviving crashed helicopters – we aren't about to stop now." She said, coyly. Paul's lip curled into a small smile that vanished as quickly as it came. He touched her face for a split second before turning towards Bonk. The big gunner was kneeling, holding a small, silver cross to his cheek, staring out at the city.

"Hard fight ahead, sir." The big man said, his dark skin gleaming in the sunlight.

"Call me Paul, Bonk. Formalities can go to hell, as far as I'm concerned."

"If that is the case, call me Richard." He turned to meet Jackson's eyes, questioning. "McKinnon is not going to last long if he is left alone. I will carry him."

Jackson nodded. "Seems fair. We're headed for that apartment building, to get a bird's eye view of the shit storm we're in. Miller will hump ammo, Mary and I will take point and rear." He took a deep breath, then addressed the four survivors. "Get ready, guys. We move in five minutes."

_Author's Note: Give me a review and I'll give you a new chapter!_


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